Page 48 of Slow Burn

“Don’t mess with Lyla Morgan.” Nash lets out a whistle. “Or else you’ll have both Bonnie and Clyde coming after you.” He gestures between us both.

“Speaking of which,” Wade jumps in. “You better give that boy a healthy severance. He’s already come whining to me about it.”

Shit. I had no idea Beck was going to react so poorly to that whole interaction. I would have… I don’t know what I could have done. I could have tried to cover my tits better or something I guess.

“I’ll give him what he’s owed,” Beck says. In the grand scheme of things, I guess the severance won’t matter when we’re saving money not paying his salary.

“On a lighter note,” Skye says in her singsong voice, “do you have plans for your birthday, Beck?”

She nudges me under the table with her leg, and the tension in me loosens as I remember what we have planned.

“If you two are planning something, cut it out,” he grumbles. “You know I hate my birthday.”

I stifle a laugh as I glance down the table at Wade, who flashes me a wink.

Beck is sitting at my kitchen table again, his large and looming frame taking up every inch of space in here. It’s his presence though, and the way Critter looks so small as Beck cradles him in his lap that takes all the air out of the room, that pulls me toward him like a vacuum.

I’m sitting close enough to him that my arm brushes against his, and electricity crackles between us every time we touch. Things between us feel… weird. Like there’s this tension that neither of us want to acknowledge, but it’d been winding tighter and tighter with every little moment of connection.

Part of me wants to blame it on Beck, he’s been acting strange since I arrived. On one hand, he pushes me away and seems to want nothing to do with me. But over the last few weeks, I’ve seen him do little things that have made me question him entirely. Things like bringing me my favourite dessert, covering me up with a blanket and letting me sleep on his couch instead of walking home, and defending me at the dinner table tonight.

I’m relieved no one asked much more about the video, I don’t want to think about it and I certainly don’t want to see it. I don’t need to. I remember exactly what happened that day. Not exactly my finest moment, and not one I care to relive. I think everyone was afraid that if they continued talking about it, they’d have hell to pay.

The thing is, Beck defended me without even knowing what happened. I never told him why I was fired. And maybe he wants to save face, if everyone knew he hired a complete and utter train wreck slash maniac, then how would that reflect on him?

Still, there’s a part of me that wonders if there’s more to it, if Mister Poker Face hasn’t been showing his hand. Not outright, just a reflection in dark glasses.

We’re both looking at my laptop screen, at the spreadsheet I’ve painstakingly created that will allow me to show Beck exactly where the money is going, and where it’s not coming back.

Beck shows no sign of anything on his face except consternation as his dark brows knit together. He’s poring over my spreadsheet like it holds all the answers to the universe, to his universe. This ranch means so much to him, everything maybe. Nerves twist my gut as I watch him, hoping I can get this right for him.

Before I came to Wild Sage, I probably would have wished for the downfall of the ranch, of any ranch really. But I see it so differently now. When Beck took me out for the ride when I first got here, I saw glimpses of it. We care about the same things, it’s the approach that’s different.

Deep down, our values are the same. His appreciation for the land, his commitment to preserving it, his care for his animals. He stayed out until the small hours of the morning, taking care of the newborn calf. Sutton was there, hell, he was paying her for her time. But he said he owes it to his animals to be there for them.

Something about the way Beck loves this ranch makes me want to root for him.

“This is pretty much what I was anticipating,” he says, resting his elbow on the table and scrubbing a hand over his beard. My eyes fixate on his lips, the pinkness of them, the subtle sheen as if he licked them. I imagine how they would feel against mine. How his beard would feel scratching against my face, my thighs. I give my head a shake to stay on task.

“Right. It’s always pretty obvious once it’s laid out like this,” I say.

Beck isn’t stupid, far from it. He keeps all his knowledge and feelings tucked away inside him in neat little boxes. I imagine his internal world to be like a massive warehouse, everything systematically labelled and ready to pull out exactly when he needs it and not a moment earlier.

“From what I can see,” I continue. “The biggest expense is the staff. And you have–” I glance over the numbers “—six ranch hands on payroll.”

“Five,” Beck says.

I made this part of the spreadsheet earlier, before Beck fired Dylan. Was Beck actually jealous?

“Right. Five.” I say. “Even at that, you pay a lot of money for people to help around the ranch, but does it even afford you any more time off? It seems to me like you still work just as hard, so maybe it’s time to ask yourself if it’s providing value.”

“Hm,” he grunts. “I never really thought about it that way. About the value to me.”

“You run yourself ragged, Beck. You take what, one day off a week? And even still you’re out there riding Willow, still sticking your nose in ranch business. You need to take some time off to rest. Do something you enjoy.”

“I do things I enjoy,” Beck argues. “I compete in rodeos.”

“You still do that for the ranch. Maybe it used to be for you, but ever since you started using your winnings to pay for stuff around here, I’d be willing to bet there’s an added layer of pleasure that takes away the fun of it,” I point out.